


Betrayal of the Banished One

by BeastOfTheReach



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Am I projecting some personal bullshit here? Maybe :), Betrayal, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Lore Speculation, Pre-World of Warcraft: Shadowlands, Shadowlands, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29841099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeastOfTheReach/pseuds/BeastOfTheReach
Summary: Zovaal having the worst day of his existence.My take on his fall. Some lore speculation. I think he was betrayed for questioning the system. Please read the tags and warnings as this is probably the second darkest thing I've written so far.
Kudos: 8





	Betrayal of the Banished One

Pain. Pain was all he could remember. It was all he had known for a long time. Pain from the spiked bindings digging into his skin with every wrong move. Pain from the runes etched into his arms and back and face. It wasn't just physical pain either. The mental anguish was almost as bad. The wandering in circles inside his own mind trying to understand how and why he ended up in this mess. He had gotten used to both kinds of pain by now, and learned to numb it with rage at those responsible.

He could remember their sudden betrayal like it was moments ago. His own friends. His lover, too. There was no warning when they came for him. He was seized and pinned, held down by thorny vines, and skeletal limbs, and blood red chains. The Firstborne floated above him, her white wings and gold jewelry almost blinding, her eyes so full of contempt. He stared right back, and wondered: what was it that he was suddenly punished for? He never got an answer. She thrust her spear into his chest, and tore out the orb that held most of his anima. Unlike the frail mortals, he didn't die from the wound, although at times he wished he could have. 

He blacked out, only to awake to see his heart being placed inside a construct. It was similar in shape to the Eternal Ones themselves, but towering over all of them, all pristine white and polished gold. Artificial. Perfect. The Arbiter, they called her. A new judge of souls, made to serve their Purpose, and their vision of the Shadowlands, while he would be cast into the Maw. After all, someone should keep all these horrible irredeemable souls in line, and he was so passionate about defending them in the past. Nothing belonged in the Maw, well, now he would. He pleaded with them, his voice hoarse and weak, but he went unheard.

He was too weak to fight them when they dragged him to the edge of the eternal city. The Primus lifted him by the neck, holding him over the precipice.

"Last words?"

"Why? Why are you doing this?" He rasped, clinging to the skeletal hand.

"You no longer fit into the grand design."

The Primus let go then, letting him fall. 

His torment didn't end there. 

They found him again in the Maw, lying broken on the ground. He was hoisted up, skeletal hands shot from the ground, restraining him. He could see all four of the Eternal Ones staring down at him with derision in their eyes. He wondered, again, what his crime was. 

He would come to realise that "No longer fit in the grand design" was just a fancy euphemism for "we don't want you around anymore." Maybe it was about his defence of the souls doomed to the Maw, after all. He always questioned why the Maw was a part of the system to begin with. He had argued that no soul was inherently evil, and therefore, the Maw was unnecessary. But that left the souls in the care of Denathrius, and the Sire likely didn't want to bother with cases this cumbersome. He guessed his questioning made them too inconvenienced. It was inappropriate, it was not palatable to talk about the Maw, even among the gods of Death. He was the only one who did, and now they finally decided to shut him up.

Familiar hands took hold of his face, and he leaned into them, delirious, before the reality sunk in with the anima infused scalpel. Rage bloomed in his hollowed out chest then, and he jerked, and sunk his teeth into the Sire's hand. Denathrius staggered back, clutching his bleeding hand.

"Well what do you know, we have a biter here!" 

They took turns carving the runes into his skin, slow and methodical. They would go over the cuts several times, and then infuse them with burning anima. With each rune, he felt weaker, more and more of his power locked away. He thrashed and screamed until his voice and strength gave out, and then there was nothing but pain. The binding was complete with a set of glowing runes carved into his forehead and cheeks. He was barely conscious by then.

He was forced to his feet, and prodded harshly with a spear, a silent order to walk. So he did, leaving a bloody trail behind. The spear dug into his back several times if he slowed down or stumbled, and a few times purely out of spite. He wondered again about the source and reason of the Firstborne's sudden hatred towards him. She seemed perfectly friendly towards him just a short while ago, and now she was threatening to skewer him with her weapon, and calling him a monster. They had their disagreements, true, but it never got to any sort of violence or anger. After all, they were eternal gods who could talk things out, even if in the end, each stayed set in their views. What was so horrible about his questioning that landed him in the Maw?

They brought him to a platform, surrounded by spikes and circles of glowing runes. He was ushered into the center of it, and immediately the oppressive power coursing through the runes weighed down on him, leaving him unable to act. He stood there, slumped and half conscious, waiting for whatever torments would come next. 

Shackles were brought out, still glowing red from the forge. He couldn't even scream as molten metal was placed around his wrists and ankles, welded shut, and attached to massive chains. There was no strength left in him to fight or resist them. He was brought to his knees as more bindings were forced onto him. A belt piece, adorned with sharp spikes that dug into his torso if he moved even a tiny bit out of line. Plates were welded onto his chest, forcing the bleeding hollow space open. More chains, keeping him on his knees. A spiked collar that threatened to slice his head and face open, was seared into his shoulders. That also had chains hooked into it, leashing him like the beast they now saw him as. 

And then, he was left alone, chained and subdued. Alone to stew in his pain and rage at the betrayal, just another soul condemned to the Maw. His wounds eventually scarred up, but the runes never stopped hurting, a constant burning that ate at his mind. An eternity of torment until nothing was left. Except his soul was too strong to be allowed blissful oblivion. No, he became twisted and cruel, and let the magic holding him down pervade his being. He became one with the Maw, and made the magic of chains and runes his own. It was ironic, really. A monster, they called him, and a monster they would receive. And so, he started planning. He will break out, and they will see what a grave mistake they had made in betraying him. 

Death, after all, was never meant to be chained.


End file.
